The Peregrine Omnibus, Volume Two (47 page)

“Easily,” Catalyst confirmed, staring out into the rain. “All of us like to think we’ve confronted true evil, that we’ve stared into the abyss and not blinked. But there are things that are older than our concepts of good and evil, Sally. And I believe that someone has awakened those things. They don’t care about our morality or our state of mind. To them, we are nothing more than ants to be ignored or killed at their leisure. They are madness, chaos, and death, all wrapped up together.”

The Revenant said nothing for a few moments, but as they neared Keane’s apartment building, she spoke again. “Sounds like you’re describing Nyarlathotep.”

Catalyst thought back to the events of a two months ago, when the Claws team had disrupted the plans of a Nazi named Mr. Dee, who had forged an alliance with a reborn avatar of Nyarlathotep. Nathaniel had not yet forgotten the darkness of Nyarlathotep’s eyes…

“Actually,” he said under his breath, “you’re pretty close. This thing is going to be bloody awful.”

* * *

The Aerie, the Downtown Atlanta Headquarters of the Claws of the Peregrine

Fifteen minutes later, the Revenant and Nathaniel Caine were among what was arguably the greatest assemblage of heroes in the modern era. The men and women who stood chatting in Keane’s study were amongst the best and brightest in the fields of criminology, occultism, and the sciences.

Max Davies, wealthy Atlanta philanthropist, wore a long overcoat and a well-tailored suit. On his face was a domino-style mask that featured a bird-like beak over the bridge of his nose. He was the Peregrine, driven to hunt down criminals in honor of his father, whose own tireless crusade against those who would oppress the weak had ended in his brutal murder. Max had witnessed that crime and had sworn to protect all those who might suffer as he had. The Peregrine sometimes possessed mental powers—telepathy, telekinesis, and prophecy amongst them—though they had waxed and waned in power over the years. To supplement those sometimes unreliable powers, he had become a master of physical combat and an excellent gadgeteer.

Vincent was the creation of a mad scientist, given a perverse form of life from the body parts of dead men. His story had been fictionalized and made famous by Mary Shelley, but Vincent was far from a monster, for in his mighty breast beat the heart of a poet. Vincent was far stronger and more durable than normal men, making him the most powerful physically of the Claws team.

A stunning red-haired beauty moved to stand near Catalyst. Dressed in a matching green cloak, her name was Rachel Caine, though criminals knew her as Esper. Blessed with powerful mental powers, Esper was able to read minds and move objects through her force of will alone. Rachel and Nathaniel were supposedly to be the parents of children who would be the next phase in human evolution. That put a bit of pressure on their lovemaking, but the happy couple met the challenge with gusto.

Professor Stone was without a doubt the most famous of the heroes in the room. Holding an honorary position with the FBI, Stone’s exploits were regularly reported on the front page of major American newspapers. Like the Peregrine, Stone had trained in Tibetan temples, though Stone had refined his studies to the point where he was able to master the fabled “Granite Discipline,” which allowed him to temporarily harden his skin to superhuman proportions. That talent was only part of what made Stone so special, however. His photographic memory and daring nature were both equally impressive attributes.

Catalyst, whose background and motivations were unknown save to a very select few, addressed the group with a calm and rational tone, as if he were discussing anything other than the potential destruction of Western civilization. “An ancient evil has been awakened, my friends. I cannot tell you exactly what it is, but I have felt its stirring in the depths of my soul. The Peregrine and Esper have had similar feelings, and now with the death of Captain Hazzard, I fear the time for action has come, and hopefully has not already passed. I have used my talents to scry the near future, and I have seen that there are several key areas where the battle is to be played out next. I believe that a series of occult thefts and purchases in recent weeks may be linked to Hazzard’s death, and that these locations are sites where the masterminds behind this threat will next strike. My visions were obscure, for which I apologize, but the meanings were clear enough. I cannot guarantee that these are the only places where the villains will strike… but they are amongst their targets. Of that much, I am sure.” Catalyst reached into a pocket hidden in his cloak and retrieved several small envelopes, each containing a different location and an item of mystical importance to be found there. “We don’t have much time to waste—our enemies are already on the move.”

Professor Stone was the first to select his battleground: New Orleans, which even now was in the throes of Mardi Gras. He read over the information contained in the envelope and nodded briskly. “I’ve heard tell of this Mask of Nyarlathotep. If someone really is after it, I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure it doesn’t fall into the wrong hands!”

“Mind if I tag along?” the Peregrine asked.

“Not at all,” Stone replied. “I have the means to get us there in no time—my submersible plane, the Mermaid, is one of the fastest ships on Earth.”

Revenant cleared her throat as she held up one of the envelopes. “I’ll take this one—I grew up in Africa and have spent plenty of time roaming around in the Congo. I’ll read up on the Necklace of Idh-yya en route.”

Esper never even looked in the envelopes. Despite this, she seemed to know exactly what they said. “I’ll head to the so-called Unknown Island. Nathaniel says it rose up out of the sea about three months ago, but since it’s in the middle of contested waters, it hasn’t been thoroughly investigated. Aerial photographs have spotted cyclopean ruins on the island’s surface, which probably means my trip won’t be a fun-filled lark.”

Catalyst smiled gently at his wife. “I’ll come with you. I think we make a pretty good team.”

That left one selection, which was taken by Vincent. “Then I shall journey to Innsmouth. Hopefully, we’ll all return here soon enough and can compare notes.”

CHAPTER III

A Cabal of Evil

London at midnight was a dangerous place, for many different reasons. The war in Europe had taken a heavy toll on the English people, but truth be told, it had never been sensible to be out at night unless one had to do so. London had a long, tawdry history of rape and murder, after all.

A foghorn sounded as a thick fog settled over the city, and in its aftermath all was quiet, save for the occasional clip-clop of shoes on cobblestone or the occasional hum of an automobile.

A stately vehicle turned through the mostly empty city streets, its progress steady and sure. There was something predatory in its movements, as if the car was home not to some human driver but to a beast of nameless evil, passing through the fog like a shark swimming through a blood-drenched sea.

The car pulled to a stop in front of a small Oriental shop. Foreigners were frequently unwelcome in London, but that had never stopped them from flooding over the borders of England and seeking their fame and fortune in the great city.

The driver of the fine vehicle hopped out and quickly moved to open the rear passenger door. A man, well past middle-age, emerged from within. He was tall and in remarkably good shape for his age, silver hair seeming to gleam in the moonlight. He held a hat in one gloved hand and he reached up to deposit the headpiece atop his skull. “I will return shortly,” he said to the driver, speaking in the dry tones of an aristocrat.

The old man strode to the front door of the establishment, ignoring the many flyers that hung in tatters around the building, each emblazoned with the complex Chinese typography that was unreadable by almost all in this city.

As he approached, the door opened, revealing a stunningly beautiful young Asian girl. She wore a gown of silken crimson, her dark hair and eyes shining in recognition of her guest. “My master has been waiting for you,” she said in Mandarin.

The old man waved a hand dismissively and shoved past her, treating her like something beneath his notice. The girl followed him quickly, not speaking out at such cold indifference. She was a slave and had long grown used to such things.

The old man continued on, ignoring the opulent furnishings around him. From the outside, this building did not seem like it would be home to life-sized golden Buddhas and priceless tapestries, but the owner of this domicile was famous for proving to be far more dangerous than he might first appear.

This was the home of the Warlike Manchu, a brilliant criminal overlord who had established beachheads in every nation on earth. The old man was not one to be easily impressed, however, and he had known the Manchu long enough that he was not going to be intimidated.

He stepped into a comfortable-looking room lined with pillows, the scent of incense hanging heavy in the air. Three more lovely girls occupied various spots in the room, but the old man ignored them all. He stared at the Warlike Manchu, who had risen to greet him. The Oriental super-villain wore long gold and red robes, his immaculately manicured moustache trailing to the floor.

“Professor Moriarty, welcome.” The Warlike Manchu bowed as he recognized his guest.

James Moriarty, dubbed the Napoleon of Crime by many, inclined his head in response. The brilliant old man had clashed wits with late and unlamented Sherlock Holmes enough times for their battles to have become legendary. “You said there was something new to report.”

“There is,” the Warlike Manchu agreed, gesturing for Moriarty to take a seat.

Moriarty frowned at the pillows, knowing that his aged bones would not take kindly to the effort of getting down and back up from the floor. “Let’s not waste any time,” he said. “What is so important that I needed to rouse myself from slumber and come here in the cover of darkness?”

“Our enemies are beginning to mobilize,” said a male voice from the shadows. Moriarty watched as a red-clad man step into view, the fellow long cloak and hood sporting a pair of small horns. Doctor Satan, a man whose litany of crimes rivaled that of both the Manchu and Moriarty combined, smiled coldly. “Our acquisition of the artifacts continues to be most successful, but Captain Hazzard was killed as a result of one of our actions. As such, many of his allies are now aware that our plans are in motion.”

Moriarty closed his eyes and briefly considered uttering an expletive. His breeding refused to allow him to do so, however. No matter what his criminal enterprises might be, he was ever the proper Englishman in some regards. “And are they aware of
our
involvement?”

It was the Warlike Manchu who answered the question. “I do not see how they could know. Both you and Doctor Satan are considered dead at the moment, Professor. And my whereabouts are unknown even to some of my closest aides. But Satan is right in that we should now step up our plans, lest they be compromised.”

Moriarty’s lips compressed into a thin smile. “What do you suggest?”

The Warlike Manchu sat down and regarded his allies with deadly seriousness. “I propose that we strike mercilessly. Kill our enemies at every confrontation, and then that shall be something less for us to concern ourselves with. The time for the Summoning is almost here, after all. And the three of us will need to devote our attentions to that.”

CHAPTER IV

The Necklace of Idh-yya

Ki-Gor, Lord of the Jungle, cut an impressive figure as he moved slowly through the abandoned Wunguba village. These dark-skinned men and women were responsible for the death of Ki-Gor’s father, an act which had condemned a young boy named Robert Kilgour to a life on his own in the jungle. That boy had grown to be a fierce warrior, but there heartache still lurked within Ki-Gor’s gray colored eyes. A part of him would always hate the Wunguba for what they had taken from him.

Ki-Gor wore only a leopard skin loincloth and a small sewn pouch that held a hunting knife to his right thigh. His skin was tanned a deep bronze from years in the sun, and his golden hair hung about his shoulders like a wild mane. Muscles rippled along his well-toned body as he turned this way and that, sniffing at the air like an animal.

“You see anything, Ki-Gor?” a hulking black man asked, moving through the village with a rifle in hand. This was Tembu George, an American Negro who had abandoned his position as a Pullman porter and ship’s cook, jumping overboard during a stop at Mombassa. Through his bravery and strength, Tembu George had become chief of the M’Balla tribe and a stout friend to Ki-Gor. They were as close as brothers, frequently spending long stretches of time together in the jungle, hunting for adventure. The jungle chief wore monkey fur anklets, breeches of white and black colubus skins, and a glittering gold chain about his neck.

“The Wunguba never leave behind things like this,” Ki-Gor grunted, picking up discarded weapons and strips of fresh meat. “There are many footprints in the sand, but the smell is not just the stink of Wunguba. Others were here.” Ki-Gor pointed towards several of the prints, which bore the obvious signs of having been made by men wearing shoes. “The Wunguba walk about barefoot. There have been outsiders in our jungle.”

George looked around suspiciously. A few of his tribesmen had come upon the abandoned village earlier in the air and returned filled with an almost supernatural fear. Within the confines of the village, it seemed that even the jungle itself had fallen silent. “The Wunguba are powerful warriors. Who could have done this? Who could have driven them away from their homes?”

Ki-Gor shrugged, tossing his shaggy mane. “Not Leopard Men or Gwambi. I would know their signs. It recently reached my ears that the Wunguba were hoarding an artifact that stank of witchcraft—perhaps someone wanted to take it from them.”

“Or maybe they unwittingly summoned a bunch of demons who killed them all,” George muttered with distaste.

“No,” Ki-Gor said in response. “This was the work of men. Demons were not needed.”

Spotting the small hut that would have belonged to the tribal elder, Ki-Gor hurried forward and entered. The elder had been a shaman, and Ki-Gor recognized many of the plants and herbs that were scattered about. He plucked up one or two and stashed them into the front of his loincloth pouch, knowing they could always be useful later.